Not Alone
by ecrichard
Summary: Alone on the Water from Sherlock's point of view. Inspired by the wonderful fiction, "Alone on the Water": /s/6914974/1/Alone-On-the-Water All credit for story goes to Mad Lori. Read her story above!
1. Chapter 1

The headaches began last month. Ever since I was a boy I'd had migraines and I thought these were nothing but another bout so I ignored them. But this time they did not go away. I even tried to maintain a normal sleep schedule and ate regularly but that seemed to make them worse. Soon I could hardly think through the discomfort. There was a white noise that ran through my synapses that was impossible to penetrate.

But still I kept working. Two weeks ago I tripped in my bedroom as I dressed for the day. My feet gave out under me and I lost my balance. It came so suddenly that I was sure that I'd tripped on something but there was nothing on the floor.

Again I ignored it.

John was the one that began to notice a change in my speech. What used to come so easily began to be hard to grasp. Words used to string together seamlessly and now there were gaps where the correct term was simply missing.

He thought the migraines were the cause of the balance and speech problems but I knew he was wrong. The small percentage that he had seen was not representative of the scale of which the illness had progressed. When the doctor told us the diagnosis I was not surprised. I had figured as much.

A month.

He said that I had one month, at best.

John was shocked. His face turned white and I was afraid he might cry. His fingers gripped the chair and he seemed to want to fight the tests but I didn't say a word. There was no reason to do anything but leave and plan for tomorrow.

The ride back was silent. I knew that he wanted to talk, I could see it in the nervous fidgets of his hands. For a doctor he was handling this all poorly. It was my brain that they were talking about, not his. This was not his problem to worry about.

"Sherlock," he said finally.

We were six blocks from the flat and stopped at a red light. He would not tolerate holding the conversation until we were home but sometimes he surprised me. "Not now," I said.

His face tightened. Angry. "No. You haven't said a word."

What was the point in talking? "There's nothing to say."

His nostrils flared. Pupils contracted. Still anger. "Unbelievable."

His outrage was ludicrous. What was there to say at the news that a tumor was eating your brain and, in a month's time, you would be no longer. There is no response. "I intend in working John. Nothing has changed."

Clenched jaw. Still frustrated. "Working? You cannot work."

"Of course I will work. That is, until I can no longer work efficiently."

"And then what?"

I didn't have an answer at that point but the decision did not come with any difficulty.

* * *

I went back to work on the Cordalia case and John went to his bedroom. He didn't check in on me which was either still a remnant of his anger at the diagnosis or his denial of the news. I had no intention in discussing my feelings on the issue so his distance was more than welcome.

The microscope had become harder to work with as the headaches grew more severe. Staring so intently became nearly impossible so I could only examine the dirt taken from the victim's shoes for a few seconds at a time.

As I focused in on a reddish speck, a feeling like a wooden board to the back of the head struck me and my knees buckled underneath me. The wave of dizziness was overwhelming and I gripped the counter to keep from falling. I debated calling for John to assist me to the chair a few feet away but I didn't want to begin a precedent of helplessness. Inch by inch, I slid my fingers down the counter until I reached the chair that I'd left by the case files Lestrade had left last night. Letting one hand go, I made a quick swipe for the chair behind me. The first try resulted in a handful of air. The second the same. I desperately did not want to collapse on the floor of our kitchen. The third attempt was successful. My fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair and I was able to slide onto seat. Even seated the room still wobbled back and forth.

Jesus.

I could barely move without fearing that I'd fall from the chair.

Even closing my eyes did nothing to stop the whirling feeling. I felt sick, like I was going to vomit from the sheer speed of the room. For the first time since the doctor spoke to us, the reality set in. These were not migraines. A pill and a good night's sleep were not going to stop this.

This was the end game. It was only going to get worse from here. The dizziness, the nausea, the speech was only going to deteriorate. There was nothing they could do. John could get pain medications to dull this experience but not release me from it.

I was not going to be like my father. I was not going to let this destroy me until I was nothing a withered shell of a person. There was so little of this illness that I could control, but I had power to choose how it ended.

I would end this on my own terms.

* * *

**I can already tell this is going to break my goddamn heart. I know that the original was all done in one segment but I like doing things in chapters so that's how this one will be released. Stay tuned!**


	2. Chapter 2

My father discovered his cancer when I was in secondary school. After a number of months of a chronic lung infection that would not clear, my mother insisted he go to the physician. When they returned she was stricken and pale and he came in nearly unaffected. He never spoke of his illness. Instead he retreated to his study as his disease ate at his body. He refused treatment even as my mother vehemently begged him to do something to make himself better. It only took two months before I was called home from school with the news that it was only a matter of hours before he would be gone.

He was on his bed with the sheet pulled up to his neck. He'd lost a great deal of weight and his cheeks and eyes had sunken in to his face and his breathing with sharp and wheezing. My mother sat at his side with tears in her eyes and a basket filled with medical equipment that kept him alive for minutes at a time.

It was humiliating for him and for me. This man was respected and a giant in his waking life and was reduced to a child in his last minutes. I didn't want that. I didn't ever want someone to see me as feeble as I saw my father. It was only a matter of getting John on board.

Once the dizziness calmed, I was able to get myself to my chair and stabilize my symptoms long enough to explain myself to John. It was critical important that he was able to assist. I couldn't do this without him. As soon as his door opened, I called him over. From the puffiness of his undereye and lethargic gait I could tell he'd been crying.

Wonderful.

"What is it?" he said.

"I've decided."

He sat down in front of me and pretended to not know what I referring to. "What do you mean?"

"How I want to die. No treatments. On my own terms."

The vagueness of the statements was intentional. John, the physician, knew exactly what I meant. John, the friend, would try to parse out how to convince me otherwise. He was emotional. It might take some convincing to get him to procure me the pills.

"Sherlock…no. I can't.

He understood. "Yes. That is what I wish to do. Can you get me the appropriate supplies?"

His lips pull down. Eyelids droop. Sadness. Just what I feared.

"You won't even look into treatment?"

"To what end?"

"A few more weeks. Maybe months." His tone was desperate, grasping at straws. I feared he may not be able to separate the medicine from the friendship.

"John, you must listen to me. I've thought about this. My brain is what I have. Without it I am no longer useful. At that point, I wish to end this. Do you understand?"

his face fluctuated between sadness and anger. "When will that be?"

I hope not for a while. My own father was given a matter of weeks and he lived for two months. A month from this doctor could be much longer. There was no use in prognosticating now. "I will work. I was continue as normal. When I can no longer do my work, _that_ is when.

He was still in shock and I presume he would say the same of me. I am sure that he will tell his colleagues that I am speaking of my own death like I would ordering dinner. He will say that I am detached and making decisions without considering the consequences. He will say these things out of grief and fear, not because he thinks that I'm wrong but because he known that I'm right.

"I don't want any suspicions cast upon you," I say. "You will procure the pills but leave them with me. When it is time, I will have you leave the room and take them. You will have no knowledge of what has occurred, is that clear?"

"Sherlock, I should be with you."

"No. Not when I take them. I will do that alone. You will have no knowledge of that. Clear?"

He looked at me with surprise but nodded. "Yes," he said.

A relief. What I was asking of him was illegal and, without me there to protect him, my enemies would use my death to hurt him. I cannot allow that to happen. "That day," I said, "I'd like to be alone."

Eyelids droop further. Sadness returns. "Oh," he said. "I see."

"You will be there. Just you."

I did not want the cadre of people surrounding me like there was with my father. Family, friends, medical personnel were all in the room when he passed. Nearly fifteen people heard him gasp his final breaths. Never for me. John served as support and medical expertise. He was all I needed.

Wrinkling of the eyes. Cheeks rise. Happy. "You sure?" he said. "You want me there?"

"Absolutely."

He tapped at the chair arm to relieve his uncomfortable feelings of having this discussion. "John, will you be able to get the medication today?"

The tapping stopped. "Today?"

"Yes."

"Well," he said, "it's not just sitting out there at the clinic. Let me talk to Sarah. I'm sure we can get it very quickly."

"Good."

We sat in silence for almost a minute as he went to great lengths not to make eye contact. I wanted to return to my work but I could feel the dizziness beginning and I did not want him to see me struggle to walk. I would wait until he was gone.

"I need to go out for a while," he said finally.

Good. There was guilt all over his face but there was little I could say that would make that emotion subside. "I think that's wise."

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. "I just need some air."

"Take all the time you need. I'll be here."

He was beginning to cry. His bit his lip to stop the flow of tears. "Call me," he said with a croaking voice, "if you need anything."

I lifted the phone from my pocket and waved it towards him.

He began to walk back for an embrace or a physical goodbye but he thought better of it. I'd rather not begin the precedent of hugging and touching as the days wear on.

He shut the door and he is gone.

Alone.

I slowly get up from the chair and my feet are leaden against the ground. With one hand to support me, I stand upright. The room wavers back and forth as I try to propel myself forward. I take one large step and balance myself on the coffee table. Another step and I have reached John's chair. A few more and I am back at my work.

I look down at the case file and force myself to look at it the same way I did yesterday.

The blood spatter that clearly indicates a hit with a blunt object.

The carpet that has been recently vacuumed.

The vase that is missing half of its water due to the growth of the plants inside.

The matchbook that—

That—

The words are lost. I stare at the photograph of the red matchbook and try to think of the words that I want. They are gone. Missing from my mind. I feel my heart pounding as I look at the crime scene and the pictures become more and more blurry with each blink of my eyes.

It's too fast.

I resist the urge to call John. This was only the beginning.

But still…

I want more time.


	3. Chapter 3

I insisted we go to the crime scene. Lestrade phoned about a fresh murder ten blocks away and, despite John's disapproval, we took a cab to the home where the body lay.

It was a good morning. I had managed to get myself to the bedroom on my own before John got back and didn't attempt to rise until the next morning. A good night's sleep helped and my dizziness and the nausea was low as we got in the car. I was aware of the leery eye contact that John gave me as I walked and examined the body at the scene. He observed my every move, which grew quite annoying as I tried to deduce what had happened to the victim.

I know he talked to Lestrade as I worked in the other room. He was the only person that I wished to tell until the time grew closer. It would only make it difficult to work if I was to be surrounded by people who had pity for me along the contempt that they already felt. It would result in a complex emotion and I did not care to interact with them on that level until it was necessary. The only reason Lestrade was to be told was to arrange the subsequent criminal proceedings accordingly. If my body was to be found in the apartment then there was the chance that John could be implicated in the crime. I could do work on my end to ensure any suspicious party that I was taking the pills of my own volition and he nothing to do with it but there would still be questions and Lestrade would be able to close the case quickly and without needing to look into John's motives.

It was clear how the murder was done. I was surprised that they felt they needed me to come down to look. Even with a brain tumor the size of a tangerine I was able to figure it out before them. What were they going to do without me, I had to think. It's so clear. I gesture John over.

"What is it?" he asked.

While the dizziness has calmed, moving quickly is not within my power. Instead I have John get Lestrade and the others and bring them to me. Half a dozen officers surrounded the body and awaited the answer to the question they had all failed to figure out on their own. As Anderson and Lestrade came in closer, there a bolt of pain that shot between my eyes. I winced but was able to turn away from the officers before they could see me. John, however, saw it all. He began to move closer and I gestured him to back down. It throbbed but it was manageable. The case wass simple as was the deduction.

"So?" Lestrade said.

I breathed through the second bolt and began to speak with the vocal fluidity that had escaped me the last few days. "Charles Petre was a car collector who was behind on his mortgage. He was an enthusiast but not a wise investor. This house was up for foreclosure and he needed to sell his cars before they took his residence. As shown by the print-outs on his desk he was interested in selling the vehicles in order of newest to oldest. The 2005 is gone. The 2002 is gone. He has sold a number of his cars for little money. He was down to his vintage supply. Then he angered the seller. Email on his computer shows a Gregory Lawson. He was to sell him his prize possession. His—"

There was another bolt that seemed to crackle within my brain. The pain knocked the words from my mouth. What, mere seconds ago seemed so obvious, was now gibberish. I looked out at the officers who stared in confusion as I tried to finish my sentence but I could not think of the words. John stood beside Lestrade and his face fell as I looked at him. I tried to speak but I couldn't.

For the first time, I was scared. My heart pounded as I looked down at the dead Charles Petre. He died. How. Why. Damn it, Sherlock. Just say it. The picture is right in front of me. The car. It's a car. What car.

Why can't I just say it?

I point at the car and look towards John. "What is that?"

Lestrade chimed in. "A late-model Citroen?"

Citroen.

Of course.

I nod towards Lestrade. He knew now. John had told him everything since he had that same dazed look on his face. I hated it and I hated myself for not being able to push past this. "Citroen. He was selling his Citroen. Lawson killed him after a bad deal."

I can't say anymore. My jaw ached and I could feel the nausea setting in. Lestrade came in close and put his arm on my shoulder and subtely helped me stand up straight again. "That's enough. Thank you."

* * *

The night goes poorly. I can't stop the nausea and it got worse with every passing minute. As soon as we got home from the scene, John needed to walk me to the washroom where I spent the next hour vomiting every bit of food that I had eaten in the past week. My chest ached as I heaved and struggled to catch my breath between bouts of nausea. John would come in with a cold washcloth or a glass of water but there was little he could do. His faux cheery attitude poorly hid his medical worries. I had researched my condition and he knew the symptoms. This was just the beginning of the end.


	4. Chapter 4

"John? Are you sure?"

I insisted that Mycroft come to finalize the legal side of it all. He'd taken the news as I imagined he would. At first he was surprised then became practical. There were specialists that he could call and treatments that he had read about. When I told him of my plans he did not argue. He simply nodded, acknowledged the legal trouble that could get the accomplices in and then moved on when I told him that I had handled it. What I wanted from him was his official legal signature on the Power of Attorney papers that I needed done before my mental abilities began to be compromised.

"Yes. He is my doctor. He will make the correct decisions."

Mycroft didn't care for John and I understood his trepidation but I did not trust anyone but him to make the decisions for me.

"What about the flat? Your belongings?"

"John will have the flat. He can sell what he wishes, keep whatever else."

Mycroft scribbled on his notepad. "Have you told Mother?"

"No," I said, "I'd rather not worry her."

He looked up with surprise. "You aren't going to tell her at all?"

"No. There is nothing she can do at this point. Why burden her?"

I understood his frustration at keeping the secret from Mother but I had thought about this decision since the diagnosis. Mother was a nervous woman and would fret and fall apart at the notion of my illness. She would be on the next train to London and cook and clean and fuss over me like a child. I would still die but it would be on her terms, not mine.

Mycroft didn't argue. I knew that he wouldn't. "Understood."

"Thank you," I said.

He tapped the paper anxiously with his pen. It was the one tell that he had when he was nervous. Mycroft was skilled at keeping a poker face no matter the situation but he was incapable of calming his hands.

"Let me get this to the office and I'll come back for you and John to sign later today."

He leaves without another word.

* * *

John came home shortly after Mycroft leaves. He appears tired and rattled after, what I assume, was a tense interaction with Mycroft on the sidewalk.

"Sherlock," he said, "I was just speaking with your brother. I don't want your things."

I sit up in the chair and concentrate my energy into focusing on John's figure in front of me. "There is no reason to keep my equipment around. This is your home. You may do with it as you wish."

"I don't want to stay here…" he begins to say.

I had assumed John would want to stay in the flat after I was gone. This was his home and there was no reason besides sentiment to move away. John was an emotional person, always attaching such romanticism to the most mundane of objects.

"If you wish."

He brought his hands to a fist at his side—angry and frustrated. "Sherlock, why can't you just act like a normal person. I mean, Jesus, I feel like I'm talking about some distant relative's terminal illness and not yours. How can you be speaking about your death like it's nothing."

His words were shocking but not surprising. "There is no reason not to plan for the inevitable."

"Aren't you scared?"

The words came out before I had a chance to stop myself from speaking them. "Of course."

He stopped. The fists loosened.

Was that the truth or just what he wanted to hear? I wasn't so sure myself. There was a large part of me that felt such tremendous guilt for what John's had to endure. On my end, I was simply fading away. One day I would be here and the next I would not. John had to watch it all occur without control over how and when it would ultimately end.

* * *

The blindness began when I woke up the next morning. There was a pounding in my temple that awoke me in the middle of the night. I went to take one of the pain medications that John had provided me when I noticed my depth perception was compromised. It took me a moment to realize that it was my right eye. At that point the vision had only been compromised, like the blur of opening one's eyes underwater.

It wasn't until we were preparing for an afternoon walk that the vision faded completely.

I didn't want to tell John. When we began the walk I was able to stand up on my own I felt an unusual sense of energy as we stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was like nothing had changed.

The park was three blocks away. With each step I felt the strain in my muscles and the nausea and dizziness begin to take over. The blindness had caused me to stray to the left and I kept bumping into John's shoulder which only served to increase his worry. At first I spoke about the case and about the connection to an earlier case I had worked on but partway through the story I lost track of the details. John attempted to fill in the gaps but gave up soon after. He told a story about a patient of his at the clinic but I had trouble following the chain of events. The pain had grown stronger and seemed to create a sense of white noise within my synapses. Every time I felt I understood and processed his story I realized that he had moved on and I was once again behind. I continued to nod and appeared to listen but even that grew nearly impossible.

As we got to the corner of the park, I could no longer continue. I felt nauseous and weak and nearly collapsed if it hadn't been for John's quick reflexes. He caught me few from the benches and helped me onto the seat. It did like to help but with the weight off my feet allowed me to focus long enough to speak.

I point to my eye.

"What is it?"

"The vision," I said. "It's gone."

His face falls. "When?"

"An hour or so ago."

His skin grows pale. "You should have told me."

I don't quite now why I didn't. Any answer I gave would make him angry so I decide to stay quiet.

All I want is to end this. I want it to continue that way it used to. I hate the way he has to look at me now—like a worried parents fussing over a child. I wish I was stronger.

"Could we go home?"

"Of course," he said.

As we waited for the cab to arrive, I watched the children run down the path with such ease and happiness. Their worries were long past and their futures were far-reaching. I knew that I would never live long—even as a child I sensed my life would be short. I never expected this to be how it ended. Always I had envisioned a life that concluded with a fall from a mountain or a shot from a criminal's gun. I cultivated a life of risks and I assumed one day that I would not come out alive.

This was not how I wanted it to end.

As I huddled close to John and prayed for sleep to come, I felt a sense of disappointment. So many years of fine-tuning my mind to a perfect instrument and this was how it repaid me. If it wasn't so dire, it would be almost humorous. My tool turned against me.

We sat in silence waiting for the cab and I could feel that each moment was counting down precious seconds. It wouldn't be long. If I wanted to control this, it would need to be done soon.

"John," I said. "I want to do it Friday."

"What?" he asked.

I didn't want to say it any more than he wanted to hear it.

"It's so soon. Two days. Sherlock…"

Two days would be an eternity. "Please. It's what I want."

He nods and looks back out towards the roads. I can see the tears that form in his eyes.

There's a date.

We wait on the bench…

We wait for Friday to come.


	5. Chapter 5

Telling Mrs. Hudson was something I had wanted to skip but John insisted.

It couldn't be avoided since she stood outside the flat as the cab pulled up. John had phoned ahead and asked her to be available to help me up the stairs. She didn't question why I would need help and held back her questions until the three of us had made it to the second floor. It was then that John sat her down and told her the whole story.

She cried as I assumed she would. She walked over and held my hand and wept into my arm. It was excruciating.

John attempted to calm her back that only seemed to exacerbate her sorrow.

"Mrs. Hudson, please," I said as she whispered platitudes into the creases of my shirt.

"My dear boy," she said. "It's not fair."

I looked over at John and desperately hoped that the message was conveyed. Luckily, it was.

"Alright," John said as he walked to our landlady and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Let's go."

Her fingers draped across my hand as she was pulled away. As she walked away I had the strange feeling that I wanted her back.

* * *

John felt that I should say goodbye to the others much to my consternation. I had been relegated to my bed unable to get up and walk without much effort. It was exactly what I did not want. The hovering over the weakening body and kind words spoken out of ignorance and lies. But he felt that it was the right thing to do.

Anderson and Donovon came in quick succession and did little but nod and talk awkwardly until John allowed them to go. Anderson attempted to continue our antagonism as to make it seem as if he wasn't showering me in pity which was appreciated. However I could tell that it made him uncomfortable—even a man like Anderson doesn't want to feel like he'd insulted the dead.

Molly arrived soon after. She wore her uneasy smile and a dress that she hid under a thick jacket. She pulled the sides tight against her body and wrapped her arms around her chest.

There wasn't much to talk about. We'd never done more than work beside each other. I knew nothing about her except what she had volunteered as I worked. She looked over at John with tears in her eyes.

"We got back the soil sample," she said.

I took me a moment to remember what she was talking about. The Rart case. Soil under the fingernail. "And?"

She spoke in an overly self-conscious professional tone as she swallowed away her obvious sadness. "It was from a fertilizer that they only sell to farms that house a specific kind of pig—Lestrade has the name. There's only one of those farms in a hundred mile radius. They're sending someone out there, I believe."

A hunch. It paid off. It felt good to end on a win.

"Good work," I said.

She nodded, overly so, and blinked back tears. Molly looked over at John and he did nothing but gesture back towards me. Poor Molly stood there unclear on how to proceed. Our history would precipitate an embrace or kind works but Molly had always been the one to understand that I did not want to talk about myself and she respected that boundary.

"Sherlock…" she said quietly.

Her face had been with me since I moved to this flat. Five years ago I needed a lab and she was a medical student who had the key after hours. At first she had an attraction and I used that as leverage. There was the promise of coffee or after-work walks but I believe she had moved on. John feels otherwise.

"Molly, please," I said. Her eyes had filled with tears.

She did not hug. She did not say another word.

"I'll call you with the results of the blood sample. Should be in next week."

"Thank you."

Good girl.

* * *

Lestrade finalized the potential criminal investigation against John. He told John that he could not be in the room when I took the medication but could provide medical support after the consumption. Lestrade, as well, kept the discussion professional. I did not want to discuss anything but John's innocence with him at this point. He kept notes and promised that the case would be an nonissue. John would not be a suspect.

We ended the meeting with a handshake. Lestrade had been the one to give me the opportunity after I sent them my opinions on a case they had mentioned in the newspaper. It turned out that I had solved it simply by reading the witness' statements a different way. After that I was called in even during the period where I was constantly being brought in on drugs charges.

He was the reason that I had a profession.

And this handshake was the last time I would ever see him.

With a look I tried to convey my gratitude. If he was the man that I knew he was, it was enough.

* * *

In the quiet of the night, I felt oddly alone. Solitude had always been my companion. My entire life had been a series of moments in which I was the only member. But in this bed, in my last hours, I wanted to share the time. I wanted John.

"John?"

He was in the next room feigning doing work. He leapt to his feet and rushed into the room.

"What is it?"

I couldn't say it. Even with my defenses down it was hard to articulate words that I needed him here.

"Can you stay a moment?"

"Are you feeling alright?" John asked as he neared closer.

I nodded.

He didn't continue to speak. He pulled the chair over to the side of the bed and moved in closer to my head.

"You should have seen Anderson's face," John said with a smile. "He was…well…"

"I can imagine," I said. "Probably killed him to come up here."

"You should have hugged him," John said. "His brain might have burst."

We share a bit of a laugh. It felt nice to laugh.

The drugs he gave me began to kick it. I struggled to keep my eyes open.

"Go to sleep," John said as he rubbed my shoulder.

"Not yet," I said. This was my last night. This would be the last time I went to bed. I felt a tinge of sadness well up in my chest.

John continued the rub down my back to calm me like he would a small child. "You must. Tomorrow's a big day."

He struggles for a smile but it doesn't come.

Much to my annoyance sleep overpowers me.

Tomorrow.

It is done tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

I didn't want the day to end in bed. I insisted we go out to the city and drive around one last time. I woke up Friday morning feeling grief for leaving my home behind without bidding it a proper farewell. John, of course, argued against it as he did everything else but I insisted. It took us nearly five minutes to get down the flight of stairs but once we were in the car it felt like a normal day. John attempted to chat up the driver but could only continue the conversation for a few blocks before they both lost interest.

All I could do was look out at the city I would leave behind.

It felt unreal.

At the moment the pain had dulled and my head was clear. It didn't feel like it needed to be done now. I wanted more time with the streets, with the cars, with the people. There was so much left to do.

The driver made a loop past the hospital before turning back. That had been my refuge after university when times were at there most strained. My brain had been scattered and over stimulated with the narcotics and focusing any bit that I could on the science kept me from making mistakes that could not take back.

I breathed a heavy sigh as St. Bart's faded into the distance.

"You alright?" John asked.

I nod. The city was going to sleep. The sun had begun to set against the buildings and the streets were beginning to fill with women in formal dresses and men coming home from a long day of work. It was time.

"Let's go home," I said.

"Now?" His voice trilled with dread.

I could ride forever. As long as we drove then the inevitable was delayed but that was not meant to be. Time would not go in a loop endlessly. My mind deteriorated every moment that I was alive and soon I would no longer be the man I am now. I didn't want to fade.

No, this is it. This is the time.

"Yes," I said. "Now."

* * *

It was eight o'clock before John brought in the pills.

As he walked away, his head bowed, I felt the moment closing in on me. Up until now it was a theory. What would happen if…

My life had been an experiment and this was the conclusion.

He returned with two pills and a glass of water. His skin was ashen and dry after days of doing nothing but tending to me and waiting for his next duty. I doubt if he's slept more than a few hours all week.

"You don't have to do this," he said.

We both know that I do and he doesn't continue the thought.

"John…" I point to the door. He has to leave.

"I don't care. They can arrest me. I want to be here."

"Please," I plead.

He turned around and faces the door. "Take them. My back is turned."

If I had more strength I would have argued the logistics but there was no point any longer. "Alright," I said.

I stare at the pills in my hand. They appear innocuous, nothing more than a Tylenol or an aspirin. But, once they enter my bloodstream, these small items had the power to shut down my entire system. It truly was marvelous to think of it.

This was what I wanted…I didn't want to die like my father. I wanted the power. I wanted have some shred of control.

Sherlock.

Do it.

Now.

I brought the pills to my mouth and tried to imagine what would happen next. Intellectually I knew the steps these pills would take but I couldn't seem to recall them. As their chalky exteriors crossed my lips I felt a jolt of adrenaline course through my body. My will, my instincts, were screaming at me. They wanted me to live. Their entire purpose was to sustain my life and I laughed in the face of that purpose.

I brought the water to my lips and let the pills fall down my throat.

It had begun.

And I wasn't fine.

Immediately I felt a numbing sensation through my chest. "John," I mumbled.

He spun around and raced back to the bed. There were tears in his eyes that he desperately kept at bay. He had to be strong for this.

"How are you feeling?"

I felt my mind beginning to slow. I can't control the words. "I thought I wanted this," I said.

"You did," he said. "You were sure of it."

It was meant to sound reassuring but it seemed like an insult. I couldn't control the panic that had begun to set in. "I'm scared, John."

He took me by both shoulders and pulled me in closer. "I know."

Each moment seemed to make my body heavier. "I don't want to go."

"It's okay," he said.

The reality hit me all at once. This was it. This was dying. My last breaths were fast approaching. "What do I do?" I ask.

He rubs my back. "Just breathe," he said. "The medication will calm you naturally. Don't fight it."

His touch calmed me. I tried to breathe like he asked. The room became darker and darker which each passing second. My flat, my room, everything that I'd taken for granted all this time-I want to miss it. I want to grieve for the life that I will not have. But mainly I grieve for the life I would not share with John.

I felt his hands drift away. "John?"

"I'm still here," he said.

It's cold. I pull at the blanket but I miss the sheets. John pulls them up to my neck and I can't keep from shivering.

"Closer," I said. I didn't want to be alone.

There is a foot of space between the edge of the bed and where I lay. John moved from his seat and sat on the bed next to me. He lifted my head and laid it on his lap. With his arms wrapped around my shoulders, I felt the panic subside. In his embrace I felt comfort. I rested my cheek against his leg and let the sleep take hold. My eyelids grew heavy. I reach up for his hand but all I gather is he shirtsleeve. I pull it close to my face and his fingers follow. All I can see is the darkness of his palm against me.

My heartbeat slows and I can feel the calm grab hold.

I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I wanted to work with John until we were too old to solve crimes any longer. Together we would work until we were no longer able to walk and then we'd sit and talk until night fell. It was supposed to be a lifetime. My friend. My friend for life.

But it's true.

I did get to spend the rest of my life with him.

I pull his arm closer and my fingers slip and fall onto the bed.

Don't give up, John.

I want him to fight. I want him to work. I want him to move on but I'm scared for him. I'm scared for me.

I take a breath and the air seems to stick against my lungs like inhaling on a humid afternoon.

It won't be long.

He'll be okay.

John will be strong. He has found his purpose.

It's so hard to stay awake.

I look out into the room one last time and see a glimpse of his face in the reflection of the mirror.

I close my eyes.

I want him to the be the last thing I see.

Thank you, John.

My friend.


End file.
